Until Proven Otherwise
by ThriftShopYarn
Summary: A series of one-shots exploring the things I like to believe are true about the world of BBC's Sherlock. Because we have no proof these things didn't happen. No slash. Chapter 7 up!
1. In Which There is a Flatmate Agreement

Until Proven Otherwise

A/N I have been plugging away at an X-Men First Class fic for the past few weeks, and it's been putting up quite the fight. To give myself a break from the challenges of getting into Erik Lencherr's head, I am writing Sherlock fics. I never claimed to be clever.

Summary: Chapter 1 takes place right after ASiP. This one was inspired by The Big Bang Theory, particularly 3.22, The Staircase Implementation.

Rating: T

Warnings: Mild sexual references. Also, I'm not British. Although I have spent time in Ireland, so I do know some useful things, such as what Tesco is.

Disclaimer: The idea of me conceiving something as brilliant as Sherlock (or TBBT) is laughable.

Feedback and constructive criticism is welcome!

In Which There is a Flatmate Agreement

The day after the fiasco with the murderous cabbie, John Watson was happily becoming acquainted with the sitting room of 221B Baker Street.

The light from the windows hit the armchair just right for reading, the traffic on the street was muted just enough to create comfortable background noise...yes, John decided he could get used to it here. Even if his eccentric flatmate had a penchant for tracking down serial killers.

Speaking of which, Sherlock Holmes had finally emerged from his bedroom and was now standing in front of John's chair. (Yes, it was now John's chair, thanks very much.) He didn't say a word, just stood there giving off the loudest _noticemepleasenoticeme_ vibe possible until John looked up from his paper to see the laminated, spiral-bound booklet the detective was holding in his face.

"What's this?" John asked, reaching out to take it.

"Flatmate agreement," Sherlock responded, wandering over to the sofa and flinging himself upon it in a manner John was already coming to find annoyingly and unnecessarily graceful.

"Flatmate agreement?" John repeated, confused. Mrs. Hudson hadn't mentioned anything of the sort when he'd signed the papers.

"Whenever you've got time," Sherlock said, closing his eyes and steepling his fingers.

John flipped the plain blue cover open and glanced at the first page. "Sherlock..."

The detective cracked open one eye.

"Did you write this?"

"Of course," said Sherlock.

John continued flipping pages. He was well past twenty when he finally asked, "...why?"

"I've found it's best to get it all out in the open at once."

"All of it...but didn't you tell me everything at Bart's the other day? The violin playing and the not talking and..." John looked back down at the book, trying to determine its thickness. "There's _more_?"

Sherlock did not even bother to open his eyes this time. "Bart's was the first barrier."

John stared at the ceiling. "The first barrier," he repeated, silently begging for patience. "To...what, _flatmate-hood_?"

"Yes. If you had no objections to those pieces of information, there was a significant chance you would be open to the rest of my...preferences."

"Sherlock," John began slowly, as though speaking to an oblivious six-year old. "In case you don't remember, I shot a man last night. A man who was going to kill you..."

"Oh, he wasn't going to kill me!" Sherlock insisted with a wave of his hand.

"Watch you kill yourself. Whatever. Don't you think we're past the point of a flatmate agreement?"

"Hand it to me when you're done so I can sign it," was all Sherlock said in response. "Oh, and initial the top right corner of every page, please."

For a while, John was quiet. He contemplated the raising rent of decent London flats. He considered the public transportation system, which would get him in and out of the city conveniently enough, if he cared to get up at least an hour earlier than he did now.

He came to the realization that a man who had shot and killed someone for a near-stranger did not have much more he could lose.

Finally, John waved the booklet towards Sherlock and asked, "Is this the... last barrier?"

Sherlock said nothing.

John spent the next fifteen minutes reading, eyes getting wider, each page being turned with a bit more of a _snap_ than the one previous. At last, he found he had to speak up. "Okay, Sherlock, we need to discuss this."

"What's to discuss?" Sherlock asked lazily. "It should all be perfectly plain."

"Yeah, but it's really not much of an agreement if I get no say," argued John. "And besides, this is just mad! Like here: Article Two: Sitting Room, Subsection A: Furniture. Sofa cushions must not receive more than two 'plumps' at a time...how is anyone supposed to remember that? And for god's sake, _why_?"John could not help but add at the end.

"This is an old sofa. Any more than two and the stuffing becomes far too compacted. The angles become too extreme. I get a neck ache when I think."

John just...let the silence stretch on for a while. "You're not the only one who uses the sofa," he finally managed.

"See Subsection B."

"Right," said John. "Sit up, stop acting like a child. We are _discussing_ this."

Thus, the bargaining began.

Two hours later, they were on _Article Nine: Kitchen_, which contained such gems as _absolutely no bananas are to be present in the flat on Fridays_, and _nothing in the refrigerator will come into contact with raspberry jam_. John had quite a trying time convincing Sherlock to allow raspberry jam as long as it stayed on the fridge door, but the man would not budge on the banana edict. Somewhere in the middle of _Article Three_, John had started using a pen to "edit" the agreement. Sherlock had let out a rather hilarious squawk of indignation as soon as ink had touched paper, but a look from John sent him into sullen silence. John had just wanted to keep things moving. Honestly, this was ridiculous. The past two hours had been marked with more tense negotiations than John had seen during all his years in the service; The Great Jam Debate had only been the tip of the iceberg.

To be fair, there were several points of the agreement with which John was quite fine. (_Windows must not be left open during summer months when flat is vacant_. Couldn't argue with that; no one liked flies.) Then there were some items he did not feel immediately concerned him. (_Article Five: Bedrooms, Subsection A: Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock's bedroom is not to be entered by flatmate without express permission._) There were others he really did not care to know about. (_Article Seven: Proper Treatment of the Skull_.)

At last, they got around to a subject which John believed was perfectly normal for flatmates to set ground rules for.

"Article Fifteen," John read, his voice sounding weary. He paused to take a sip of water, and found himself wishing it was whiskey. "Visitors. Subsection A: Female..." John stopped, and instantly regretted putting up such a stink about the jam.

"Sherlock...first of all no one, other than a biology textbook author, describes it as 'coitus'!"

"Well, that's what it is!" Sherlock snapped. His patience was wearing thin by this point, especially if his hair was anything to go by. It looked rather like a six-month vacated squirrel's nest.

"I really don't see how it's any of your business!" John snapped back.

Sherlock huffed out a frustrated breath. "Look, I'm not asking for a play-by-blow account, or whatever you call it. Just give me six hours advanced notice so I can make plans to be elsewhere. Unless I am conducting a related experiment, in which case I will provide you will all necessary materials well in advance..."

"_Sherlock!"_

Little did either of them know that John's exasperated groan of Sherlock's name would be the first of many over the next several years.


	2. In Which John is a Browncoat

A/N

Summary: Takes place anytime pre-Reichenbach. _Firefly_ quotes taken from Episodes 1, 5, and 11.

Rating: T

Warnings: Belated whining about the cancellation of _Firefly_. Also, I'm still not British.

Disclaimer: The idea of me conceiving something as brilliant as Sherlock (or _Firefly_) is laughable.

In Which John is a Browncoat

Sherlock Holmes was aware that John Watson was, as the colloquial phrase went, a pop-culture sponge. Hardly a case went by without the doctor making some reference to James Bond, Doctor Who, or Monty Python, usually earning smilies or chuckles from Lestrade and the other Yarders while Sherlock looked on with a blank face. However, John, along with the entirety of Scotland Yard, would be shocked to discover that Sherlock actually recognized many of these references. Maybe not right away, but if he cared to, a bit of mind-palace "sweeping" was usually enough to retrieve the necessary connection. Anything really prominent in wider culture was usually in there somewhere. One never knew what would prove useful. Sherlock had once cleared a man's name by knowing he was a rabid Whovian who would have never missed something so momentous as the return of Sarah Jane Smith.

However, there were some references for which no amount of "sweeping" could provide an explanation. Even more curious was the fact that no one else seemed to get these particular references either. Sherlock was used to everyone else being out of his one-person loop, so it did feel odd to be just as lost as everyone else.

For example, a few weeks ago, Sherlock had been standing toe to toe with Anderson, fuming and slinging a fraction of his repertoire of insults in the man's smug face. (Just a fraction; they'd still be there otherwise.) Anderson had been refusing to allow Sherlock to reexamine a piece of evidence which Sherlock insisted he had (or should have...really what was the difference?) unlimited access to.

Anderson had ended the tirade simply by turning around and leaving the morgue with a rather unnecessary slam of the door.

"Well," John had said mildly. "Curse your sudden and inevitable betrayal!"

If Sherlock had been as confused as Molly looked, he would certainly not have lowered himself to showing it.

Then there was that case last month. Sherlock had rightly deduced the correct warehouse where the suspect would be disposing of his evidence before leaving the city. So he, Sherlock, had of course accompanied the Yarders and confronted the criminal, and if the grateful warehouse owner had decided to thank him, well, that wasn't his fault, was it? Actually, he had found it rather tedious. He would have much preferred to be further questioning the suspect so there would be no doubt in anyone's mind (meaning Anderson and Donovan) that the thief had had no accomplices. While all this was going on, Sherlock happened to be standing close to Lestrade and John, who as usual had been left with very little to do by this point.

"So," Lestrade was saying in the tone of voice John had once told him was an indicator of sarcasm. "We found the initial evidence that cast suspicion on this guy, even if we didn't realize it right away. I made the arrest order, my team actually takes him down; that's got to make us something!"

"Big damn heroes, Sir." John replied, completely deadpan. From what Sherlock could overhear, John could then no longer hold back his giggle, but Lestrade did not find the situation nearly so amusing.

The last straw came two weeks ago, in an office building. They were matched against two would-be corporate spies who had had a bit too much experience enforcing a dictatorship in South America than Sherlock would have liked. John and one of the thugs both had guns drawn on each other. While Sherlock had every confidence in John's ability to keep his head in these kinds of situations, it would not do to have things get too messy before Lestrade's team arrived to make the arrest.

"If you would tell us where you hid the plans, this whole confrontation would be easily avoided." Sherlock said. "And should this escalate any further, I am afraid you will find yourselves outmatched. John here was in the army. Best not to upset him."

"Right," said John, neither his gun nor his gaze wavering a fraction. "Also," he continued, indicating Sherlock with a slight tilt of his head. "He can kill you with his brain."

Sherlock had once pointed out, a little petulantly, that oftentimes nobody responded to John's attempts at humor, but the doctor had shrugged and simply said, "I know you like being the only one in the room who understands something; maybe I do too. Only I can see you don't find it so great when the tables are turned. Which is weird," he continued. "Not getting the trivial stuff never seemed to bother you before."

_No_, Sherlock thought. I_t didn't._ At least he told himself it didn't. The truth was, after meeting John Watson, there were quite a few things Sherlock was paying more attention to about himself. And one of them was the idea that being on the outside of things was not always the most fulfilling place to be. Maybe. In certain circumstances. If he really let himself think about it.

One night, soon after the office building stand-off incident, Sherlock found himself bored. John was in bed, Lestrade had not had a case for them in over a week now, and sleep would be taking the easy way out. So Sherlock decided the hell with it, googled "he can kill you with his brain", and started skimming through the links. Quickly, he began to notice a certain...theme.

_Bovines and spacecraft, what absurdity is this?_

_River. Who names a child after a geological feature?_

_What does John _see_ in this? _

Sherlock's eyes drifted over to the bookcase, and settled on John's sparse collection of DVD's. One box was slightly thicker than the others, with the title written in curvy gold lettering along the side.

Sherlock told himself he was not that curious.

John was woken abruptly by Sherlock barging into his room. He glanced first at his clock, _three in the bloody morning, really?_ then turned to his flatmate, who was standing in the doorway, arm outstretched, holding something rectangular. John fumbled around and flipped on his lamp.

"John."

"Yes?"

Sherlock shook the box in his hand. "This."

John was still so disoriented he could hardly make out what "this" was. "What about it?" he sighed.

"Where's the rest of it." Amazing how Sherlock could make a question sound totally not like a question.

John squinted, finally making out what the box actually was. "Is this why you haven't been sleeping?" he asked, a little incredulously.

"Never mind that!" snapped Sherlock. "You obviously like this program, otherwise you wouldn't have spent the money on it. Yet the subsequent series are not to be found on the customary shelf. Where are they?"

John had a hard enough time keeping up with Sherlock's deductions even after eight hours of sleep. "Um, there isn't any more. Some American channel canceled it because it wasn't getting enough viewers or something."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. This was clearly unacceptable.

"There's a movie," John added hastily. "I'll pick it up next time I'm out. Can I sleep now?"

Sherlock blinked, and for a moment John was afraid he wasn't going to let it go. Then, he said, "Yes. Fine. Goodnight." He turned abruptly and shut the door far too loudly for three am, and John could still hear him muttering something about "illogical".

"Good morning!" John muttered at the door in correction, then turned over to go back to sleep. He couldn't help but grin to himself. However inadvertantly, he'd gotten Sherlock Holmes into sci fi.

_Shiny._

A/N Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. The next installment will be about either Mycroft or Molly.


	3. In Which Mycroft Wears His Father's Ring

Summary: Because I love Mycroft. I love that we know practically nothing about him, which makes the guesswork even more fun. I love how he can come across as both unassuming and powerful by turns. I love that he really does care for Sherlock, but is so limited in how he can express that. So, here's to Mycroft. I hope I pulled it off!

Rating: T

Warnings: I have been having problems with my spellcheck, so I'm sorry if I missed something. And I'm still not British. Though maybe if I just _wish_ really hard one night...

Disclaimer: The idea of me conceiving something as brilliant as Sherlock is laughable.

In Which Mycroft Wears His Father's Ring

Mycroft Holmes does not have children. Nor is he, in fact, married.

Oh, there are rumors of course. Those who won't meet his eyes when they see him in person have all sorts of theories about his domestic arrangements. Some say he's gay and has to keep it under wraps or he'll get the boot, while some insist he has two sons and a wife named Margaret who makes excellent pot roast. Mycroft is aware of all the rumors, hell, he started most of them. He even knows about the group in the Department of Health running a poll on whether his sceret base is beneath Stonehenge or Loch Ness, but from what he can tell they are the only outliers.

In reality, Mycroft has none of these things. Not the white picket fence, nor the family photos on the desk, nor any of the hundreds of little details most people use to indirectly broadcast to the world "Look, I made it!" They would only be liabilities if they were a part of the life Mycroft actually lives. Well, not the secret base. But even if he did have one, _which he does not_, it would never be located in such a high-traffic area.

Mycroft lives alone. His personal staff move in and out of the house during the daylight hours, leaving him to his solitude during the evenings. He meets with politicians and world leaders and spies. He keeps _everything_ running smoothly. That's what he says when people ask him about his job. And they usually laugh, but really, it's the closest thing Mycroft can say to the truth. When he has time, he keeps his brother out of trouble. He does wear a wedding ring, but on his left hand, which confuses the hell out of people. It belonged to his father.

This lack of what many would call normalcy never bothers Mycroft. He is playing the role he was born to play.

He is his father's son.

Mycroft idolized his father growing up, and strove to be like him in every way. He quickly grew to share the elder Holmes' interest in politics and legal matters, in the way the smallest events would combine or shift against each other to change the whole picture. He had the patience to read a book from beginning to end. He appreciated a healthy debate, each argument following the next in a logical flow. He could look at an uncomfortable truth without flinching, and was willing to weigh the costs and benefits of a course of action in terms of money or lives.

But where Mycroft and his father were meticulous and concise both in thinking and manner, Sherlock was erratic. He was a streak of lightening, both brilliant and terrifying in his unpredictable ability to bring either clarity or chaos to any given moment.

Needless to say, Sherlock had never responded well to their father's style of teaching or discipline. After years of trying, the elder Holmes had given up on his youngest son. Not that he had ever put it that way. Mycroft had. But only years later, after he had truly realized the extent of the damage his father had done.

When Mycroft was seventeen years old, his father died. That whole year passed in a flurry of hospital visits, getting Mummy out of bed in the morning, wrestling Sherlock into his jumper when he did not want to go to school. And trying desperately to soak up any final lessons his father had to teach.

Finally, when it was clear nothing else could be done, his father had come home to pass his final days in peace.

One early evening, Mycroft sat at the bedside, holding his father's hand and watching the sky change from dusky lavender to indigo, knowing it could be days or hours until the end. When his father opened his eyes for the last time, he looked right at Mycroft with his famously intense gaze that no illness could diminish, and told his son he was proud of him.

And Mycroft felt as though his entire life became complete at that moment. He could neither hold back his tears, nor keep his face from breaking into a smile.

A shuffling at the door made him whirl around and see Sherlock hovering there, just outside. He looked at his ten-year-old brother, really _looked_ for the first time in what felt like forever. He was all long limbs and wild curls, and looked so, _so_ lost. Mycroft could almost see his brother's brain feverishly working to make sense of the absurd mix of emotions in the room before him. Smiles and tears, death and relief and happiness; none of it made sense to someone who could not understand why kissing his mother goodbye was a nice thing to do. Mycroft felt a strange constriction in his chest, and suddenly he _got it_. Sherlock was his little brother, and however different they were, he was Mycroft's responsibility now. Maybe, in some strange way, they could compliment each other. They would be all right, Mycroft would make sure of that. After all, hadn't his father spent his whole life preparing him for this? To be the one who made things all right?

So Mycroft had slipped the ring from his father's finger, pocketed it, and told himself he would be his father's son.

Sherlock had not responded well to him either.


	4. In Which There is a Sad Bereavement

A/N I just want to say that from now on I will make a stronger effort to respond to reviews. I am still getting used to this communicating-with-strangers-online-thing, so please be patient with me! It's the least I can do for everyone who has been so kind!

Summary: This one is a bit different. Instead of describing something I believe to already be true, this chapter describes a situation I can see happening in series 3. Takes place a little less than 1 year after Sherlock's return, almost 3 years total after the Fall.

Rating: T

Warnings: Descriptions of violence. Also sadness. And, of course...hold on a sec...(checks vowel usage)...*sigh* Still not British.

Disclaimer: The idea of me conceiving something as brilliant as Sherlock is laughable.

In Which There is a Sad Bereavement

For the second time, Sherlock Holmes watched from a distance as John Watson stood at the grave of someone he loved.

_Two times too many_, he thought to himself. He hated to see John this way. The collapse of his shoulders, the defeated bow of his head. Defeated. That word was _wrong_. John Watson, the man who was so many things, was never supposed to look defeated.

When he saw John sink to his knees in front of the smooth grey stone that read _Mary Watson_, Sherlock remembered this was not about him. As he started across the lawn of the cemetery, he struggled to keep his thoughts in check, but as nearly always, he could not. Because this entire twisted, horrible mess boiled down to one name.

Moriarty.

The man had died. Sherlock had watched him die. Then he had given two years of his life to destroying his criminal network until finally he could return. Back to Baker Street, to the Yard, to the Work, and of course, to John.

But things were different after so much time, because John was with Mary. While Sherlock would never begrudge his friend that happiness, and while he would stubbornly insist to himself that his ability to master cases was no different, a small, annoying corner of his brain called him a liar. He was off, and he knew it. Oh, John still helped as often as he could, and of course the cases got solved, but something was _off_. And for a while, Sherlock believed he was the only one who noticed.

He was wrong.

At 3:45pm, exactly 247 days after his return, the psychologist had been climbing the courthouse steps, on her way to support one of her clients through a hearing, as she often did. There had been two shots. The first through the head. The second, almost as an afterthought, through the stomach; a sickeningly symbolic way of ending the life of the child Mary and John had learned existed that very morning.

3:45pm. Sherlock had not needed to see the report to know this was the time of death. In that instant, he had received a text that froze everything. Every muscle, every breath, every thought.

_I've missed the Game, haven't you sweetheart?_

Moriarty needed Sherlock back in the Game, completly. For Sherlock to be in the Game, John needed to be in the Game. And for John to be in, Mary needed to be out. It was that simple.

_Dammit_, how had this happened? _How?_ What had he seen that day, on the roof at Bart's? What had he seen, but not observed?

He stopped the furious train of thought when he found himself standing at John's back. The other man's grief was inescapable. Until now, Sherlock had thought he understood grief. He understood it was a singular experience, unique to each individual. He was certain, therefore, that as an observer it should not seem a tangible thing to him. He should not be able to feel it quivering through his arms and down to his fingertips as if he could grasp it. He should not be able to detect it in his own stomach. He should certainly not be able to _taste_ it.

There was so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to explain, to ask forgiveness for, to try and justify. But he knew John well enough to know he would not be listening to any of it. Besides, Sherlock had not yet mourned Mary, the bright, compassionate woman with the mischievous smile who had held John together for two years and beyond. At least, he had not mourned her as his friend did now, bent over, hands pressed to his face, gasping in air. No, the mourning of Mary Watson would begin as soon as he left this cemetery. Ideally, it would be short, and would end when his true archenemy had a permanent resting place. So, he said the only thing that mattered.

"I will find him, John."

_I will kill him, John_ was what he almost said, but when John turned to look at him, (and John was the only one, besides Mycroft, who had ever been able to stand looking him in the eye) Sherlock was relieved to find he had said very much the right thing.

John had never been difficult to read, but now Sherlock was shocked at how easy it was for him to identify every emotion on his face. He saw pain, rage, and the resignation of a soldier waiting for his next mission. Over it all was deep, unshakable love. Sherlock understood that the kindest thing he could do for his friend, when the time came, would be to not hold him back.

"We will." Had John's voice not come out so hoarse and strained, it would have sounded as simple and straightforward as he said everything. He turned back to the headstone, and Sherlock knew there was nothing more to be said. He reached out and lightly brushed his fingers against the back of John's head in parting, then turned to go. As he strode across the lawn, hands in his pockets and eyes straight ahead, his mind was surprisingly quiet. The only path he could see was plain for once, and he was satisfied with that. There would be time enough later for puzzles, for dramatic reveals and for showing off at the Yard. This would not have anything to do with relieving his boredom or stimulating his mind. This time, they would be as efficient and methodical as John's hands when he reassembled his gun after cleaning it.

The Game was over.

Sherlock did not need to turn around to know the moment when John stood up and started to follow him.

A/N So...the next chapter should make you laugh! Thanks for reading!


	5. In Which Sherlock is An Excellent Uncle

Summary: As a general rule, Sherlock Holmes was indifferent to children. Nobody told him John's child would throw the rulebook out the window. Think of this as a happier alternative to the previous chapter, in which Mary, John, and Baby are alive and well. As promised, a chapter to make you laugh. Or at least go "Awww!"

Rating: T

Warnings: Do I even need to say it?

Disclaimer: The idea of me conceiving something as brilliant as Sherlock is laughable.

In Which Sherlock is an Excellent Uncle

Contrary to whatever Mary and John would say later, Sherlock did not "instantly adore" Melanie Josephine Watson.

Oh, don't be mistaken, he tolerated the child's existence from the day she appeared in the womb. There was no point in denying the scientific fact that a fertilized egg had attached to Mary's uterine lining; a baby was inevitable. Thus, Sherlock had gone about making the proper congratulatory gestures, even going so far as to take himself to the corner store to purchase a card, which he later completed with a personalized message. He was quite proud of himself, even though his efforts had not been as well received as the telly and Lestrade told him they should be. (Um, thanks Sherlock...we're glad we were able to successfully procreate too.)

Of course he was around her after she was born. John and Mary were clearly ecstatic with this tiny, pinkish, sleeping human being, and showed her to practically everyone. Sherlock just did not feel as though he needed to respond to her as every other adult did.

At Melanie's baptism party, Sherlock had the misfortune to find himself squashed between the arm of the sofa and Mary's Aunt Peggy. He busied himself with mentally listing the molecular interactions required to create the slice of marble cake he held in his lap, not wanting to give his sofa-mate the slightest impression he wanted to hear about her near-sighted husband, her three cats, or her bridge club, those being the only pieces of tedium he could so far tell from his peripheral vision. Aunt Peggy clearly had other ideas. She looked at Sherlock, gestured to the small crowd gathered around John and Mary and smiled blissfully. "They're calling her Melly Jo! Isn't that just precious?"

"Mm." Sherlock made an affirmative noise without turning around. What did it matter what the girl was called? All names were combinations of syllables with culturally relevant meanings; that did not make any one in particular "precious".

Aunt Peggy was relentless. "Isn't she just adorable!" she gushed.

"In the way all infants appear to be, I suppose," Sherlock answered. "'Adorableness' is, after all, nothing more than a survival tactic to ensure the continuation of the human species. Evolution has wired us in such a way that the sight, sound, and smell of an infant triggers the pleasure center of the brain. Essentially, parents are tricked into enjoying the sacrifice of independence, sleep, finances, and intercourse to the care of a small, dependent person. No one would have children otherwise." He remembered to smile at her as he finished saying this. However, it did nothing to alleviate the "awkward silence" as John had suggested it would.

"Who are you, again?" Aund Peggy asked.

"Melanie's godfather," Sherlock answered promply.

"Oh."

Sherlock was not sure what he had done wrong, but at least he had the sofa to himself again. He continued to eat his cake, and watched Aunt Peggy have a very animated conversation with John and Mary, which appeared to have something to do with him, judging by the direction of her pointing finger. John glanced his way and rolled his eyes as if to say I give up with you, but Mary was giving him a very considering look over the top of her daughter's head.

Time passed. A little over two years, in fact. An outsider might find it odd that Sherlock rarely saw his goddaughter for such a long stretch of time, but anyone who was really familiar with his lifestyle would not bat an eye. When he wasn't at the Yard, abroad, or running the streets of London, Sherlock preferred to work at Baker Street. There was tea at Baker Street. And Hobnobs. And nobody to complain that keeping fingers (temporarily!) in the same fridge as everyone's lunches was not sanitary. Sherlock simply did not spend an overwhelming amount of time at John and Mary's house. When he was invited to dinner...or just turned up, Melanie was usually brought out to the sitting room. Sherlock could not help but notice that her swing seat was always set next to wherever he was sitting, and if he was not mistaken, appeared to be moved slightly closer with each visit. However, whenever Melanie was in her swing she was sleeping, so Sherlock did not see any reason to disturb her and usually forgot she was even there. Other times someone, usually John, insisted on setting the girl in Sherlock's lap for a picture, but this always proved to be an uncomfortable experience for the two of them. Melanie would start to fuss almost instantly and Sherlock would just politely avert his eyes and let her get on with it until Mary took her away. The result was he basically saw the girl in snapshots until she was two and a half.

There was no special occasion. John had simply asked if he wanted to come over for dinner, and Sherlock had said yes. While the two of them were talking about the latest case, Mary walked in unobtrusively and plopped the child on a blanket spread in the middle of the sitting room floor, and surrounded her with toys. She took a few moments to get Melanie interested in them, then stood and beckoned to John. "Sorry, but I need you in the kitchen for just a bit. Sherlock, keep an eye on her, would you?" Mary and John slid into the kitchen, which was partially visible from the sitting room by a halfwall, John smoothly keeping up the conversation the whole time.

Having nothing to focus on while he talked (dinner prepartation was decidedly dull), Sherlock found himself, as Mary had asked, "keeping an eye on" Melanie. She had not moved from her blanket, and was busy with a puzzle Lestrade had given her; fitting large, colorful wooden shapes into the appropriate slots on their board. Of course, being two and a half, Melanie's fingers had nowhere near enough dexterity to make this task easy for her. But the girl never tantrumed. She did not become upset and fling the pieces, or try to shove them into the board out of frustration, as other children might have. Instead, she worked at it, patiently turning each piece in her small hands over and over in her attempts to get it right. Her poked out tongue was the only outward sign of the depth of her concentration.

The conversation from the kitchen had long ago stopped. Sherlock had not noticed.

Then Melanie, by some sixth sense, seemed to realize she was being watched. She turned her head, the puzzle forgotten, and looked directly at Sherlock. And for the first time, Sherlock stopped seeing Melanie Watson, and instead began observing her.

At first glance, anyone would say the child took after her mother. She would be tall one day, and long-limbed, her head already a tangle of silky brown curls. But it was her eyes, her blue eyes, that told Sherlock differently. Her eyes and that steady, open, curious gaze. She was calm under his scrutiny, shoulders back and chin high, as though answering a challenge.

He would know this child anywhere.

That was when Sherlock understood, finally, that no matter how many more children John and Mary might have, Melanie Watson would be endlessly facinating and forever important.

And without any direct evidence, Sherlock would never be sure Mary hadn't planned the whole thing.

A/N As always, thank you for reading!


	6. In Which Lestrade Finds the Perfect Gift

Summary: Pre-Reichenbach Christmas, I guess during "Belgravia" but there's really no mention of it. I'm not as happy with this chapter...it's a bit all over the place, but I hope there's something enjoyable to it.

Rating: T

Warnings: I watched the Jubilee celebrations from my living room tv. It was a sunny day where I was. I'm still not British.

Disclaimer: The idea of me conceiving something as brilliant as Sherlock is laughable.

In Which Lestrade Finds the Perfect Gift

Christmas.

Greg Lestrade was a sucker for it. The lights, the songs, the treats, and of course, his kids' ear-to-ear grins and shouts of delight as they opened their gifts each year. For this reason, he always put a decent amount of time into his Christmas shopping. Unfortunately, not everyone was as easy to please as his kids.

It was no secret that Sherlock Holmes was bloody horrible to buy gifts for. That John was able to manage it just added to Lestrade's suspicion the man had superpowers. In years past, the detective inspector had always spent the weeks preceding Christmas asking his collegues at the Yard to chip in for a gift card to some restaurant or other. After about four years of eye-rolls and hearing "Sorry mate, forgot my wallet," Lestrade had given up all pretense of this being a group effort and just signed his name on the card. It wasn't like Sherlock was ever particularly grateful. He'd flip open the card, barely seem to read it, proclaim the gift "useful" if he was in a good mood, and shove it in his pocket. If he really thought about it, their bizarre holiday ritual made Lestrade sad more than anything else. While considering two types of model airplanes Lestrade thought again of his kids and sighed. Shouldn't everyone experience that kind of joy?

Making his way again down the aisle, Lestrade abruptly stopped and stared at the shelf in front of him. _No,_ he told himself. _This would just be mean. He won't like it. Just get him the gift card as usual._ He tried to continue his browsing, but paused to look back at the small, unassuming box.

It was too perfect.

...

As soon as Sherlock unwrapped the gift, he threw it down on the table with a snarl and stalked away. the overly cheerful music of the Yard's Christmas party both helpfully masking anything he was saying, and providing a hilarious contrast to the tall, skinny figure in black stomping away and scowling hard enough to make Scrooge take notice. John put down his glass and reached over to pluck up the discarded box. He snorted in laughter before reading aloud, "_Guaranteed fun for children three and up._ Lestrade, what were you thinking?" Opening the box, he took out the stack of silver coils and stretched them out experimentally. "Do you think he even knows what this is?"

"I don't care how much higher he claims to function than the rest of us; there's no way he can't recognize a slinky when he sees one," replied Lestrade coming off as sarcastic, because really Sherlock's response had been funny. He was not disappointed. Absolutely not.

"How did you even come up with this?" asked John.

Lestrade shrugged. "We have a bunch of them at the office to give to the kids we need to interview. Having something to play with keeps them calm when they're agitated, distracted, and in a strange place. One of Mary's ideas." He raised an eyebrow. "Sound like someone we know?"

"Well, you hit the child part right on the head! I haven't seen him this offended since Detective Kerrik 'forgot' DNA is an acronym," John laughed. Then, as an afterthought added, "And who's Mary?"

"Oh, you know Mary Morstan," Lestrade said. John shook his head.

" Wait, no, you don't. She's been away this past year teaching." Lestrade chuckled to himself. "Seems like you've been around longer, sometimes. Weird. Anyway, Mary's with the downtown counseling center, she works with a lot of kids who have been through trauma. Great woman. I'll introduce you when she's back in town. Remind me."

John paused before taking another sip of his drink and smiled. "A shrink? Naw, don't think we'd get on."

Greg raised his glass towards John. "Hey, don't knock it until you've tried it, mate."

John just smiled in response, then reached for the box. "Whatever you say Greg. I'm gonna track him down," he said, jerking his head in the direction Sherlock had gone. "And I'll hang on to this for him."

Lestrade shook his head. "Don't bother."

"No," John replied with that smile he sometimes gave without realizing it, the one that said _you don't know him as well as you think you do_. "Let's just see what happens."

...

Had Lestrade not posessed his own considerable observation skills, he might have deemed his gift yet another failure.

However, at the next murder scene, as he was walking down the hallway after being ordered out of the bedroom, he distinctly heard Sherlock say, "John! Where is it? I need it!"

_Couldn't be._ Lestrade thought to himself.

He might have stopped his observing right there, had he not heard the unmistakable _fwip fwip fwip_ of those metal coils being rapidly shuffled from hand to hand as the detective talked and reasoned and argued a mile a minute until everyone saw he was inevitably right.

...

They eventually got used to the sight of Sherlock and the slinky.

"Sir," Sally said to him one day as Sherlock sat in his office deducing loudly, his words punctuated by the occasional _fwwiiiiiiiiiiiiippppp_ of the slinky falling through his long fingers and hitting the linolium floor. "Sir, can't you do something about that? He was annoying enough before..."

"Sally," Lestrade cut in. "Maybe you haven't noticed, but Sherlock hasn't made one sarcastic remark to either you or Anderson in the past week." He headed back into his office to see what progress Sherlock had made, but paused and turned back at the doorway. "You're welcome."

But it wasn't until Lestrade, on a visit to Baker Street to drop off some files, noticed the slinky sitting next to the Skull on the mantel that he felt as though he had really accomplished something.

A/N Yes. I used this chapter as an excuse to waste time determining what sound a slinky makes as it hits the ground. Time I should have been spending on other things. Also, question: Is there any interest in further chapters about Melanie Watson, from chaper 5?


	7. In Which There Are Flies

Summary: Based on true-life events. Also, this chapter references the flatmate agreement from chapter 1.

Rating: T

Warnings: Not British. Won't insult the country by trying to fake it.

Disclaimer: The idea of me conceiving something as brilliant as Sherlock is laughable.

In Which There Are Flies

Possibly the last thing John Watson had expected to see upon entering the flat laden down with grocery bags was Sherlock Holmes dancing.

Well, that's what it had to be, John figured. True, the random hopping pattern followed by the occasional low leap, combined with the wildly swinging arms did not look like what a normal person would call "dancing." But seeing as practically everything Sherlock did would not fit anyone's definition of "normal," John figured he was in no position to judge whatever was currently taking place in their sitting room.

"Bit short on partners, I take it," John said mildly, trying to predict Sherlock's movements as he crossed to the kitchen in order to avoid a collision.

Sherlock abruptly stopped mid-leap and turned to John, a look of absolute frustration upon his face. "Flies, John!"

"Flies John what?" John asked dumbly.

"Flies!" Sherlock exclaimed again. "In the flat!" He waved his arms in a vague imitation of wings, and now that John was paying more attention, he could see the detective had a magazine clenched in one hand.

Sherlock suddenly twitched his head in annoyance, spun to the side, and with a sharp cry of vexation flung the magazine with both hands at the space where the fly had evidently been buzzing in his ear. Then, swinging his arms in movements far too exaggerated for such a tiny creature, he made his way in lurching steps towards the open window.

John blinked. "Why is the window open? We were both out today. We agreed!" he accused.

"I was..." Sherlock said through clenched teeth. "_Doing. An. Experiment!_" Each word was accompanied by a swat of the magazine.

"So every item on the twenty page flatmate agreement you made me sign actually had a 'void if Sherlock is doing an experiment' clause attached to it?"

"I thought that was assumed."

"Yeah, well, I think I'm gonna go pencil it in so I don't forget," John said sarcastically, depositing the bags on the kitchen table and heading towards his room. Sherlock's voice stopped him short.

"Your door is locked." John sighed. "And why is that?"

"Because," Sherlock said, now stalking around the curtains with precise care. "I'd forget to keep the door closed if it wasn't locked. And then the flies would get in your room." John hung his head but couldn't stop his grin, because wouldn't you know it? Just when you thought you had Sherlock Holmes figured, when you started taking it for granted that he was always going to be this manic, selfish, logical machine who wouldn't recognize a proper social interaction if it bit him in the arse, he went and did something like this. Something considerate and practical and _friendly_. John watched the detective persistently swat a fly until it was battered out the window, and looked on with painful sympathy as his triumphant grin changed to a look of incomprehension as two more flies took the moment of distraction to dart inside the flat. These moments of humanity, he realized, were why he was still living in 221 B. They were what made his friend Sherlock Holmes.

As John watched his flatmate continue his futile dance around the sitting room, looking ever more pathetic with each passing second, he looked around for anything he could use to help. Of course they had no fly traps or even a fly swatter. That would be too practical of them. And the shops would be closing up soon.

John's eyes landed on the latest issure of _OK!_, lying innocently on the coffee table mixed in with old mugs and newpapers and police files.

...

The sight that greeted Mrs. Hudson when she poked her head into the doorway of the upstairs flat was that of two grown men dancing around the room swinging magazines through the air. She was not sure what they were doing, but whatever it was appeared to have a point system based on accuracy and creativity.

She quietly closed the door and headed back down the stairs, unfazed. This was not by far the oddest thing she had seen up there.


End file.
